


So Deeply Magnus Bane

by enkelimagnus



Series: Tumblr Prompts [7]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Mention of the Adventures of Petya and Niousha, Gen, Magnus Bane Deserves Nice Things, Magnus Bane in Glasses, Magnus Bane introspection, Mention of Alec Lightwood - Freeform, Mention of an OC - Freeform, POV Magnus Bane, Seraph Blade, Studies, mention of malec
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 02:31:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16631168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enkelimagnus/pseuds/enkelimagnus
Summary: Magnus' thoughts on a late evening working in his apothecary.





	So Deeply Magnus Bane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesorrowoflizards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesorrowoflizards/gifts).



There’s a stack of parchments and papers and books, piling so high on the right side of his desk that Magnus is pretty sure he’s subconsciously using magic to keep it up. There’s a potion bubbling somewhere on the work table, but he’s not really paying attention to it. It’s shampoo, and he’s so used to making it that having a cauldron of it running is one of his favorite calming sounds. 

The smell of sandalwood, undercut by the mixture of herbs he uses to balance the deep scent is wrapped around him like a blanket. He’s not wearing an actual blanket, but one of his favorite shirts, a flannel rather on the thick side.

He grabs a quill and a pot of ink, and writes a letter to an old acquaintance, some vampire in the depths of the Russian taïga, who only speaks in a specific mix of 18th century Fenya Russian, and his regional dialect from the same period. His connection with the man is one of the relics of some of the most criminal phases of Magnus’ life. 

He only reaches Piotr Berislavovitch when he is in need of certain books or ingredients that he can’t get through legal ways. He knows that the man would probably deliver, and he knows he shouldn’t try to think about how he’s gotten hold of the item. No questions is part of the deal. Magnus provides potions, translations and spells in exchange. 

He rarely thinks about those times where he enjoyed the darkness of the underworld, all that remains of it is acquaintances with specific sets of skills, a few regrets, and memories of adrenaline rushing through his veins. He had fun then. He still has fun now, but differently. The adventures of Petya and Niousha were far behind the two of them. 

The apothecary around him is an obvious tell of that. It’s messy, in a way, but studious, scholarly, the prime example of the kind of man he has been for a few decades. A wise powerful warlock, tricking people into thinking he’s much older than he actually is. 

Sometimes he thinks that he is that old. It’s been a couple centuries, and he’s so different than what he was before. He used to be young and wild, and now he’s one of those warlocks with libraries of books in all continents, constantly buying more places to store things. 

What remains of young him sits in a cave in China, somewhere hidden, glamoured. He would know if a mundane stumbled upon it, the things inside of it would make the news. And his wards would let him know. There are books, journals he wrote, paintings. Guns, and contraband, and old sex toys too. 

He’s still this messy now. He’s never been able to properly store things for too long. Every decade, he’ll go through libraries and try to order the books, but a month later it’ll all be undone again. He’s messy and he doesn’t mind it. He knows where everything is. 

Magnus finishes the letter and closes it, and sends it as a fire message. He’ll get a reply when his acquaintance finds someone to send the message back, or by the mail in a couple of weeks. The matter isn’t pressing, or Magnus would have asked someone else. 

He sits back in his chair and takes in the dangerously high pile again. He’s going to regret putting off all those translations and studies. Or maybe he won’t, because he was busy with his friends and Alec at that time. He was actually doing something worthwhile, not procrastinating. 

He adjusts his reading glasses on his nose. They are low, half-moon spectacles that only old wise white-bearded men in children’s movies wear. There’s even a beaded string that goes around his neck, so he can rest them on his chest when he takes them off. They are incredibly old-fashioned, but he adores them, and they work great. They are perfect for evenings like these, spent studying. 

Alec has a meeting with some Clave representatives, the kind people have around a meal, that’s stuffy and uncomfortable and you don’t even really want to eat because you know everyone is judging the way you chew, or how much you drink. Alec will come home tired and frustrated and will pour himself a whiskey. 

Magnus summons a glass of red wine at the thought. He can drink here. The work he’s doing is not even for a client, it’s just his personal studies. The nature of magic, the link between Edom and the mundane world, warlock culture throughout the ages. That kind of things. He knows he has a book or two that he needs to return to the Vatican, or the Spiral Labyrinth in there, but it’s not like he can’t afford the fees. 

He stretches slightly. The cauldron smokes, a flash of golden light flavored with rosemary erupting from it. It reflects in the glass doors of the shelves he keeps herbs in, and on the long saber fixed to the wall. It’s a gorgeous blade that he cherishes, a gift from another old friend a long time ago. He sharpens it from time to time, like all the blades around his apartment. Another calming sound, calming thing in his life. 

The knives of his kitchen are sharpened regularly, when they need it, and when he needs it. Once, he was a warrior too. He still is, differently, more rarely. Often, Magnus feels like he’s more a collection of his past lives than anything else. He’s the criminal, the warrior, the healer, the hair stylist, the jeweler, the club owner, the real estate mogul. This current life will probably be “the scholar”, or “the saver of the extended Lightwood family’s asses”. Or both at the same time. 

His life has been so incredibly full lately that he doesn’t think one term will be able to define this era. He loves and he laughs, and he’s the happiest and most content he’s been in such a long long time. 

He tries to explain to Alec everything that has happened to him in the last 400 years, but he knows he’s forgotten a lot. And there are things he won’t ever really tell anyone. Things so deep and personal, secrets so hidden that he doesn’t even remember half of them. Things no one knows except himself. Not even Cat. 

One of Alec’s seraph blades is resting on the edge of the work table. He stands up and walks to it. He makes sure no one is there to see or listen, to know what he’s about to do is possible. He doesn’t know if he’s ever going to use this. 

He slides his finger over the guard of the weapon and takes it in hand, his fingers are firm and his grip steady. He knows how to wield such blades, maybe even better than half the Shadowhunters in the Institute. 

He takes a deep breath, and feels a different kind of magic awaken inside of him. He remembers the first time he took a seraph blade in hand, and the look of pure terror in the Shadowhunter’s gaze as he fought back against him. It was a long time ago, when Magnus would fight those angelic soldiers every other day to save his skin. 

Thoughts of Piotr Berislavovitch are forgotten when the blade glows red and Magnus feels the angelic power resonates through his body. It’s a different kind of power. One that is both physical, and the jubilation of a man that is able to wield the weapon of his oppression. He remembers feeling this wicked glee when he first discovered he could do this. He’s more angel than all of them combined. 

He executes a few motions, parades and thrusts, enjoying the weight of the weapon in his hand. It’s far from perfect, the blade is obviously Alexander’s and it’s not balanced for him, the way his own blades are. But it’s a seraph blade, and he can wield it. 

He puts it back down after a few minutes, a smile of contentment on his lips. He takes a sip of the wine, resting his hip again the desk, and taking in the room. There is no other place in the world that is so deeply Magnus Bane.


End file.
